


Lacunae

by filigree (figureinthecarpet)



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:27:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figureinthecarpet/pseuds/filigree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitzwilliam Darcy leaves Hunsford on 11 or 17 April and reappears at Pemberley on 4 August.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

... Loved I a dream?   
My doubts, born of obvious darkness, seem   
A subtle tracery of branches grown   
The tree’s true self -- proving that I have known,   
Thinking it love, the blushing of a rose.   
But think. These nymphs, their loveliness ... suppose   
They bodied forth your senses fabulous thirst?   
Illusion! Which the blue eyes of the first,   
As cold and chaste as the weeping spring,   
Beget: the other, sighing, passioning,   
Is she the wind, warm in your fleece at noon? 

\--- from Stéphane Mallarmé’s   
“The Afternoon of a Faun,”   
trans. Aldous Huxley 

 

**April**

As with everything else he did, Fitzwilliam Darcy endured his rejection quietly.   
  
Those who did not know him thought nothing amiss, and those who did thought him inexplicably but harmlessly distracted. But whether in the pursuit of some grand inner vision or simply lost in nothing, they would not have the pleasure of explanation. His mind was long barred against all manner of attack including the illusory.  
  
Darcy worked his customary hours, ate his meals and conducted his meetings with grim precision, but for once felt trapped by his own meticulousness.  His anger had been exhausted in the letter, leaving only fatigue and bewilderment.  He had thought himself in the right, but still he  _explained_.  Long-ingrained habits resisted and the resentment felt comforting.  
  
At the weekends, he sat in his library, read, worked, resolved the predictable demands and enquiries so that the cycle could be repeated  _ad infinitum_.  Once he drove out when he thought he couldn’t stand the enclosure of walls anymore.  Darcy shifted gears and thought steadily of nothing amidst pleasant blurs of verdant growing things, realizing that he was almost to Maine when it was firmly dark.  He drove back immediately, six hours to Manhattan to arrive at work the next day, light headed and hollow-eyed but otherwise no different than any other day.  The excursion did nothing and Darcy did not repeat the experiment.  
  
His work in New York at an end, Darcy found fewer excuses to avoid a dispirited Bingley. Together they made the necessary outings with the Hursts and Caroline in tow. He could be reassured that Bingley had the knack for charity, but it was clear that his friend’s heart simply wasn’t in it despite saying the correct things and smiling correct sincere smiles. Charles’s resemblance to Caroline crystallized in those moments and never had the family resemblance seemed so ominous. Darcy felt an answering pang of guilt, but refused to think on her and hers, consigned all of their conversations to oblivion, but he could still see her smile, strange challenging glint in her dark eyes. He had thought that she’d felt something for him.  
  
His phone buzzed.  It was his secretary yet again, reminding him that airport security waited for no one and that there was a car waiting outside.  Georgiana expected him in London soon enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**May**

He had not hoped that they would go.  But surprisingly Georgiana asked, diffidently wondered at dinner whether they would resume their custom and he made the arrangements with more alacrity than was perhaps required.  He did not question her asking, but fraternal concern followed inevitably as he gazed his fill and saw the trembling that she tried to hide.

 _Jewels_  was their tradition.  Pick a country, pick a company, their father used to say on their wanderings.  They went everywhere and still there was the ballet – the same crystals stuck fast to the artists' bodices, refracting the light and music in mesmeric patterns.  Differences distilled into accents and geometry, the alien territory conquered after every performance. 

Georgiana was pale as he handed her into their seats.  It was not a premiere but still there were too many people. There would be no  _cosseting_ , as Claire Annesley had counseled strenuously, but it still took a moment to master his alarm to smile reassuringly at her.  She bit her lip and bent over her programme notes to hide her face, looking up only when the music began.

Fitzwilliam looked to the stage as well.  He was no  _connoisseur_  but had learned to love the music in motion, wood sprites and ondines at solemn play in the emerald deep water.  When he was small, he had taken lessons everywhere and had danced with the peculiar idiosyncrasies of the unmoored.  How his parents had laughed.  But soon enough there was no more laughing and no more traveling – only he and Lady Anne at home under vigilant eyes, Georgiana's kicking more feeble than a moth’s flutterings.

This night was not for his enjoyment, there were no ciphers to be understood and the music flowed only sluggishly.  Instead he chanced a look at Georgiana and saw her enraptured, looking almost herself again as the queen spun filigree on stage.  They had not spoken since she told him to go, September last, twisting one of Gorey's pamphlets in her hands.  She wanted time, and Bingley needed his help, said she, then burst into tears when no more words were forthcoming.

He had not gone until the good doctor had said the same, and lived for letters in the interim.  Caroline had thought it charming, letter-writing, but she had not his desperation for their  _words_ nor the need to reassure a girl who would not answer the telephone.

When Georgiana was very young, Fitzwilliam remembered presenting her with a tutu made to resemble those of the artists on stage.  She had stuttered with delight at the wet sheen of velvet and paste jewels, even more so when she realized that it was tailored for her from the original patterns. He took pictures enough for many albums as she made timid steps  _en pointe_ , a mermaid, ever ready to hide herself beneath the waves, discovering the novelty of air.  This girl was almost a mystery.  She wore his sister's face but it was a broken resemblance – he caught glimpses of a tidal steadiness amidst the timidity and other distracting inconsequentials.  He had never known anyone like that save their mother.

The clock  _pas de deux_ had always been a favourite.  The woman walks and the cavalier follows but both are alone, never noticing the other presence.  Darcy had always loved the dream vision but now found it torturous.  The music ebbed and flowed and the pair walked on, carried ever forward in oblivion.  His powerlessness was on display and Darcy wanted the reminder over.

His thoughts steadfastly refused to surrender what was miles and months out of the way.  He wished the feelings away but they refused to remove themselves, though she had pushed him away with angry words and flashing eyes.

Had she known how he felt?  


She must have, but there hadn’t been any other way to interpret the implacable anger sharpening her words even as she looked ready to cry.   _How could you simply assume, **presume**  so much on so little? This isn’t what I want, Darcy, you are not what I want._  


He wished he understood then the mistakes.  Even now he did not know what she wanted.

Georgiana sighed, face aglow with pleasure as the music died away.  He glanced over, caught her beaming, reluctant smile tugging even as he longed to be somewhere alone.  She whispered his name and he nodded, replacing his hand on top of hers and waited for the light to change.

 

 

Fitzwilliam knew he was lost when the imported principal took her place center stage.  He had forgotten, or had never noticed the resemblance, nor had he ever needed to.  Dark hair, dark eyes, the same impertinent sweetness as the döppelganger eluded her cavalier, both sets of eyes bright as their bodies flirted.  She was fleet-footed, sharp angles and bent wrists amidst an English garden of rounded elbows and polite arabesques.

Darcy stared, entranced.  He had thought her unremarkable save for something about the eyes.  But as it was with onions he found himself past layers and yet more layers until he thought himself at the center of the earth, but yet there was still more to learn and a persistent need to find out.

Now the acquaintance was over and he wished his reflections at an end as would be logical. He will likely never see her again and should be well rid of her, bid farewell to any hopes of her.  Yet all Fitzwilliam could see was a woman laughing herself sick at something Bingley had said, brown curls flying every which way as she threw her head back.  He had been entranced by the lovely curve of her throat, then the lines of a shoulder down to long, slim fingers clutched round a glass.  She had managed to stop giggling eventually, turned to look at him in the doorway with some astonishment and then offered something incisive that he now understood to be a symptom of  _dislike_.  Yet that was the first time he understood that he was attracted to her, that his wanting to be near her meant danger.  _  
_

 _You could have asked and I would have told you honestly, no coy excuses or subterfuge.  Instead you thought about how essential I was to_ your _happiness and decided that the reverse was true._  


She had thought him  _mistaken_ , but he knew his own feelings well enough.  It was not a pallid love, easily starved by a terrible sonnet, but a deeply seated rightness shuddering into place. She took an interest in everything and he could not help himself but to look  _with_  her. The strict separation between he and the world lessened a little.  There was very little deep feeling in his world save for Georgiana and yet it was so easy to summon it, to envelope  _her_  in it.

In turn he had saw her need for steadfastness of feeling. One stalwart sister or even three very silly ones could not stand completely against a recalcitrant father and a capricious mother.  Yet at Hunsford that which he had tried to offer so directly had been taken as offense.  There were words that he should not have said, thoughts that he perhaps should not have thought, but they were all parcel to her peculiar allure and he had wanted her to know.  Now he must take what refuge correctness offered in distinguishing his real offenses from another man’s vengeance.

After bows and the usual deluge of flowers, he stood to let Georgiana out of her seat – he did not need to escort her, she said, determined but flushing with the exertion – he should have insisted but instead sat down again, feeling inexplicably guilty for being relieved in her absence, longing as he did to be elsewhere.

 

 

 

He sat through the  _alla tedesca_ quietly, a small dread blossoming at the thought of the ending celebration, of the triumph of adoration, a foolish hope where reality had failed.  Instead he wanted to, as he always did, to watch Georgiana but that was another mystery to be unraveled and he could not bear to see the spectre of Lady Anne so close.  Instead he watched artists present illusions like swan maidens and wondered when deconstruction had become canonical.  His ballet-mad parents would have made worlds out of the unsatisfying vision.  He could only frown.

The publicly affianced principals made their appearance, all smiles and electric devotion. She unfurled her harmonious lines, beckoned attention to her gleaming hair ornaments, lissom willow branch arms reaching for only him. They celebrated their mutual surrender, he pressing kisses on her hand in adoration. This was what he wanted but the vision would never be his.  


He thought that he could not remain sitting there any longer, blindly but still politely began making his excuses onto the darkened aisle and then out of the theater altogether as the  _scherzo_  began. She had made clear her desires, none of which included him.  He had not realized it, had not anticipated such a possibility, had not thought it possible to go so far off course.  She named it arrogance; he rather thought it was beyond that to willful ignorance.  He had wanted her and thought it logical that she should wish the same, refusing all signs to the contrary to force the issue. 

 _Even now you don’t realize what you’ve done, or perhaps you’ve never cared.  Go away, Darcy, you are the last man in the world whom I could_ ever _want._  

Then Georgiana was at his arm, took in his pallor and uncontrollable tremor and took charge, stumbling over instructions to the unfamiliar driver and then less so to their housekeeper on the mobile.  She thought him unwell and he did not disabuse her of the notion, even at her pronouncement of bed rest.  Heartsick, he allowed himself to be led out, stumbling into the hired car to lean against the glass.  He had been wrong and  _a letter_  was inadequate to the remedy of it. Yet it must suffice.  It must.

In the dark Georgiana held his hand very gently.  He wished that he could say something but could find no words suitable.  He could not even find reassurance, instead pressing her hand and hoped that her alarm was of short duration.

Perhaps we should find lighter fare for our next outing, said Georgiana, suddenly.  Did you know that  _Anna Karenina_  is now a dance drama?

Fitzwilliam shuddered at the joke as was his duty and assured her that he would diligently attend to his own recovery in time for their next outing, San Francisco perhaps.  A year should suffice.

 

 

  
  
 _ **Some Notes  
**_ My apologies if this resembles a viewing guide to  _Jewels_ _  
  
_ _Jewels_  (1967) – chor. Balanchine,  _Emeralds_  music by Fauré,  _Rubies_  music by Stravinsky,  _Diamonds_  music by Tchaikovsky, costumes by Barbara Karinska. It is incorrectly billed as the first full-length abstract ballet, but in fact it is comprised of  _three_  abstract ballets:  _Emeralds_ ,  _Rubies_ , and  _Diamonds_. They are sometimes performed separately from each other. The story goes that Balanchine was inspired by some particularly fine jewels when walking past the displays of Van Cleef and Arpels.  
  
There are two commercially available recordings: the first, selections from  _Emeralds_  and  _Diamonds_  from  _Dance in America_  in 1979 (excerpts from  _Rubies_  were omitted in the commercial release), and the second, a complete recording of the Paris Opéra-Ballet in 2000. __  
  
Jewels has been staged by a number of companies over the years. The complete ballet was first staged at the Royal Ballet in 2007 in London. As mentioned at the end, the San Francisco Ballet also dances a staging.  
  
The 'spinning' refers to the first solo, commonly known as the 'bracelets' solo, originally danced by Violette Verdy.  The first London cast had Tamara Rojo in the role, or as some prefer, Roberta Marquez in the second.  
  
Gorey refers to Edward 'Ted' Gorey, who was (in)famous for going to every NYCB performance (though not every piece performed) for some twenty years. The pamphlet most likely refers to his  _The Gashlycrumb Tinies._  
  
The imported principal refers to Alexandra Ansanelli, recently retired Royal Ballet principal dancer, former principal dancer at the New York City Ballet.  
  
The School of American Ballet teaches the Balanchine method, which emphasizes  _allegro_  technique.  Distinguishing characteristics include baroque arms(bent wrists, 'petal' - some call it claw - hands), and an emphasis on elongating the line at the expense of preserving the 'squareness' of some movements.  
  
In contrast, the English (Ashton) school emphasizes squareness: rounded arms (instead of oval, taught in other schools, to lengthen the line), very delicate and restrained  _épaulement_ , arabesques at right angles. This style has largely been supplanted by a syllabus based on the Soviet method (also known as the Vaganova or the Russian method) with its emphasis on harmonious  _épaulement_  emanating from the back; arabesques exceed 90 degrees, sometimes by an uncomfortably large margin. __  
  
Diamonds was in part inspired by series of mediaeval tapestries (housed at the Cloisters in New York City) depicting the capture of the unicorn.  
  
The publicly affianced principals are Mariela Nuñez and Thiago Soares of the Royal Ballet, who were engaged to be married when I first wrote this chapter (they are since married), though whether they are cloying in performance remains to be seen.


	3. Chapter 3

**June**

 

He  _was_  sick.  Two days and nights of blankly staring at the crown moulding when he was awake alternating with the sensation of being  _hot_.  Occasionally he felt hands on his forehead, cool trembling ones from Georgiana and astringent ones reeking of hospitals and disinfecting agents.  Once he woke up to Georgiana’s voice wafting down the hall.  Brother had been working so hard, but I don’t – He has – I can’t – I don’t -

It was probably Fitzwilliam: cousin, companion and protector to the Darcys since birth, but still Georgiana’s voice wavered uncontrollably.  Darcy remembered too, how barely she kept her panic in check as she tried to consult the night nurse on his condition.  She was still not enough to deal with this, damn it -

Darcy tried to get up, but all he managed was a muffled  _oof_  of surprise as his elbows gave out and his head crashed back into a confusion of pillows.  He closed his eyes against nausea, and heard running steps and then a cry of dismay, then Georgiana’s voice saying anxiously, rest now, brother, please, then her hands, still shaking, against his arm and shoulder and finally forehead.

He tried to tell Georgiana not to cry but delirium beckoned again.  He gave into it, wondering if he would dream.

 

 

 

When he was better they ascribed it, delicately, to stress and overwork.  Georgiana nodded at the strictures, more obediently than he did, then shamed him into staying in bed with gimlet eyes and ogress manners that someone must have  _taught_ her. Her eyes watered at his resistance, and of course the never-ending brother-guilt bade him to subside.  Then there was relief and a bit of unconcealed triumph when she smiled.  Darcy thought suddenly of sibling tactics that she had never before used and said so.  

You are my brother, said she quietly.  It is my turn to take care of you.

He nodded, thinking fuzzily on her resemblance to their mother and said so before obediently closing his eyes.

 

 

 

Acute  _streptococchal pharyngitis_ , his cousin pronounced, dropping unceremoniously into the seat that Darcy had mentally allocated for female relatives and their attendant concerns.  I say, Darcy, what scrape have you to confess this time?

I don’t know what you mean, sir, Darcy returned, attention caught by a past FT. The rest of his bed was covered with light reading, that is, whatever Georgiana had deemed to be 'not work'.  The news was his only victory, extricated from her tyrannical hands at the cost of an afternoon doze.

It was another Saturday.  Darcy felt inexplicably bare without his tie and coat.  His cousin’s steady gaze vivisected him in other ways.  He longed to lose himself in the pink paper.  Anyone else’s woes would do.  The never-ending ethnic drama in Africa neared crisis again – Darcy wanted paper to write instructions for his assistant, but Georgiana had hidden the necessary articles.

You are never sick, Darcy, said Fitzwilliam, mildly enough, and you have all the signs of a guilty conscience.  We did grow up together, you and I; and  _I_  remember your moral sicknesses.

In truth he had not thought of his childhood afflictions in those terms, but he could draw the necessary connections easily enough.  Lady Anne had always known, the sixth sense of mothers he thought, when he had done something naughty, but she preferred to wait until he was ready to confess.  Those times were few enough but he did remember the flush of illness accompanying those mortifying moments.  Strange that he had not seen the connection. 

After mother died, Darcy had been admonished not to distress his grieving father.  For years, he had been afraid that doing wrong would mean the demise of his remaining parent, and after baby was brought home from hospital, his Georgiana.

I cannot say, replied he, resolving not to think of his wrongs, of her.  Perhaps I was overdue for an uncomplicated illness.

His cousin laughed and did not pursue the point.  The conversation turned to other matters, but occasionally Fitzwilliam would look at him, puzzled, as if still trying to make out a moral quandary.

 

 

 

They went to Cornwall after Darcy had recovered.  Their uncle the judge, orderly to the last, had left them the cottage and sufficient funds to pay the death duties.  More often than not it stood empty and lately Darcy had wondered whether he should sell it.  It would have been ideal if either of them enjoyed living at an accessibly quiet distance from Jamie Oliver, but even the landscape could not assuage his discomfort with encroaching tides of holiday-makers. He buttered the pan before setting it on the temperamental aga, wondering where Georgiana had gone.  There were no eggs for the omelette and Darcy ruefully turned down the gas in search of flour and a recipe-book.

His mind wandered to the other Bennet, eyes and hands steady even as chaos broke out in the Netherfield kitchen.  Charles had asked for cooking lessons and devoted too much time attending to Jane instead of the fire.  He had not known that water could burn with such enthusiasm.  

In the stunned aftermath, Jane rose unsteadily.  Never mind, said she, voice still spotty from fever.  Then suddenly everything was set right – Elizabeth was extricated from the library and they were sent to fetch the camp stove while Charles was set to scrubbing (he must learn, for our own safety, said Jane to their protestations).  Her voice gave out in the midst of scrambling instructions and the rest was accomplished via charades.  Bingley got his cooking lesson after all and was sentenced to the crunchier bits of the product after dropping the cracked shell.  They ate dinner almost congenially, reviving to their normal selves only when Caro and Louisa returned from their mysterious errand, brandishing something autographed from one of his favorite authors.

One could accept almost anything as  _normal_  with Jane, but now he recognized that normalcy was a distraction.  Bingley could have been distracted with takeaway, wallowing forever in cheerful confusion.  She consoled him with acceptance and lessons about food safety.  It may not have been love but the affection bore a strong resemblance to it. Perhaps that was the beginning of their true attachment.

Caro craved respectability, chasing eternally after that elusive seat on the board of City Ballet because accepting one at Ballet Theatre would have been deemed  _nouveau riche_ ; Louisa wanted attention, and she had found her source in Hurst, who certainly paid enough to her tasteful ensembles and expertly planned entertainments; Charles was not immune to need.   _He_  needed to find something beyond the appreciation of generosity and manners, moving on relentlessly with his search under the guise of good humor and capriciousness when he excavated fairy gold.

Darcy had been conditioned by that disappointment, expecting to discover nothing new when the promise of true attachment was uncovered at last.  Bingley had been hollowed by that loss, and it was his fault.  He did not understand the normalcy and instead saw only placidity. 

He should not have given his advice so freely.  He was an observer but he had never been comfortable with attraction, nor had ever devoted time to studying its subtleties.  In truth her sister had distracted him even when he had not intended to be.  The same sister, that reliable source, had refuted his assumptions.  Now there must be a next step and he knew that somewhere in its convoluted workings must also be an apology to his friend.

He stopped whisking.  He had apologized to one sister but had only rectified only half the wrong.  He could not hope for constancy restored under the burden of such disappointment, but perhaps there could be solace in identifying the true culprit.  Perhaps Jane has been told already, but his honor protested such indirect (and unrepentant) contrition.  But – no, he could not think on such a reunion, not even with a sister.  Perhaps, in time...no, he could not yet speculate with equanimity.

The kitchen door opened with a bang and Georgiana ran in, clutching an oddly bulging paper sack.  Cornish summers were windy and today particularly so.  Darcy set down the mixing bowl to help his sister struggle with the door - it took both of them to close it.  Afterwards Georgiana leaned against it and blew hair out of her face, her cheeks reddened by the wind and exercise, he supposed.

I should have gone to the other door, cried she, but oh the wretched wind!  It blew me quite off the path and I thought I should have fallen down the mountain like Marianne.  Are those pancakes?  Here are eggs from Old Tom, you remember the green grocer.  And here are some very lovely strawberries for the table - I could not bear to leave them and now we will  _drown_  in both gooseberries  _and_  strawberries.  Please say you will go to market with me tomorrow, I should like some pilchards for a pie and do not know how to choose.

Darcy took the eggs from her, mute as his sister fairly bursted with words.  It was all he could do to remain sensible, crack eggs into the bowl and continue mixing them into proper pancakes.

The Lady Anne was quiet almost everywhere but was transformed by the lack of audiences.  George Darcy, noted orator and diplomat, only encouraged her by saying as little as was necessary or as possible as situation permitted.  He used to wondered at the inexplicable transference of words, but his father laughed upon hearing the question.  The better to hear her, said he, I know my own thoughts.  The son thought he understood, now.

I had thought to walk by the water, Georgiana said, peering into his face, but I saw that there were no more eggs and it was such a lovely day.  Are you very angry with me?

Of course not, said he, smiling a little.  Shall we have strawberries with your breakfast?

It's only that I am so happy that you are here, replied she shyly, ducking her head.  I have missed you, and...and...I was so worried, Fitzwilliam, you were so  _very_  ill.  She flew at him, straitjacket arms round his middle.  Even before that, you looked so tired and distraught. 

April was a difficult month, said he, but I am well now.  Do not worry, dearest.

There are some boiled lemon sweets in the sack, said she, her voice muffled, vibrated reassuringly against him, cousin said that you favored them at school.  I am better now, brother, and I will take care of you, I promise.  You will tell me if you need me?

Yes, he said, somewhat bewildered, the rest of the feeling very akin to contentment, I will.  And you  _are_.  Then his arms too were straitjacket arms and they clung to each other until the pancake burned.

 

 

Darcy deemed the pilchards lackluster and Georgiana contented herself with grey mullet.  He was not fond of wine sauces but made exceptions for ones swimming in cream.  Georgiana's face lit up when Tom Elham made shushing noises and then furtively produced flawless Cox's pippins from a covered basket.  She could not convey her delight clearly - Darcy wondered how she came to know the grocer, and he her weakness for apples - but Old Tom patted her hand and seemed satisfied.

Upon further investigation at home Darcy determined that the aga had been cleaned and serviced.  The gas marks were set correctly and the warming oven no longer charred objects meant for its attention.  He coaxed Georgiana to admit that she had cleaned the cottage in the autumn as therapy.

I could not go out, she said reluctantly.  Our cousins would have coddled me with attention and I wanted to be alone.  It seemed very important at the time, so I stayed and thought to occupy myself with laundering bed linens.  Oh, there were ever so many.  Then afterwards I remembered you moaning about the aga and...I thought I could convince Dr Annesley to ring for a repairman. 

He laughed as he was bade to.  Claire was the very image of gentle understanding unless she perceived her patient to be shirking from recovery, then she was the picture of gentle obtuseness whilst coaxing the patient from danger.  You cannot placate her as you did me with boiled sweets.

No, said she, blushing.  She did not ring and then decided that I needed to walk, so we went on walks to every which place until I was steady enough to go to market with her.  She would shop and I would hold the basket, until I found myself with the list and she with the basket several weeks later.  Then in November she fell from a ladder and there was no more  _walking_.  I was so restless by the third day that I set out alone - I remember stammering at the butcher.  He was convinced that I was foreign and tried very hard to  _parlo italiano_.

Darcy set down his fork and knife, very much struck by the imagined tableau.  She had wrote him frequently but never with such detail.  He would not have heard the animation in her voice however and let the thought console him a little. And the aga?

Her blush deepened.  I ran out of other things to do, and I could not leave your nemesis undefeated.  Claire suggested that I write to prepare myself, so I did, and when it was done I had thirty pages of nothing.  But she was fixed before I returned to London in December, and now the Newquay handyman is convinced that I am bound for Bedlam.

 

 

At another meal, Darcy asked his sister of her wishes.  She had not spoken of them and he did not know whether her reticence was uncertainty or a symptom of something else.   There was nothing wrong to the asking, Annesley had said in reply to his message, but do not press for an answer if she cannot give it.

Georgiana paused for so long that he began to feel uncomfortable, but finally she returned the spoonful of gooseberry fool back to her dish.  I had hoped, that is, I thought I had better go back to university.  She looked so miserably determined, clutching her spoon until her knuckles turned white. 

He sighed, Georgiana -

No, it's what I wish, cried she, but he thought her protestations sounded unhappy, it's just...Oh it's so hard to explain.  It's always harder than Claire makes me think but yet it feels so good afterward anyways.

Darcy pushed his pudding away and poured more wine for both of them. 

I was so very unhappy at school before; it was what I'd wanted but it was not what I had imagined.  There was so much to learn but there were so many  _people_ too.  You could not have one without the other and I did not know how to put them together.  I am not like you, brother, and I wish I were a little more.  You do not like the confusion and the noise yet you do not fall to pieces around them.  I know I am timid and too trusting, and I had always had you and our aunt and cousins to protect me.  I relied upon it too much, I think.

Trust is not a flaw, dearest, said he, wondering at his sister's assessment of him.  He did not fall to pieces, but he had heard people call his discomfort severity, among other things.

Y-yes, but it is a weakness when applied so blindly, you see.  I had not seen George in so long yet I...  He was so safe and familiar at first that I thought it  _must_  be all right to trust him even when I had never known him before.  I trusted Mrs Younge because protectors  _must_  be good and honorable.  Georgiana had begun to tremble, I should have known better.  Why did I not know better? 

Darcy could only offer her his handkerchief and then a hand rubbing circles on her back.   Then he could not resist and put the other hand over hers and the spoon.  I erred in not preparing you better, said he, I had only wanted to protect you but you needed more.

She threw her arms round him and snuffled into his jumper.  Oh Fitzwilliam, on my part it was also willful ignorance, because I could not allow the world to be otherwise. I have so much to learn, not only from books or music or art. 

Georgiana had already found the sense of herself, Darcy thought. It was such a heady feeling, glimpsing the shadow of the woman that she would become.  He only wished that it had not been obtained at such a cost.  I understand, he murmured back, but I hope that you will not turn away from books and music and art entirely.

She laughed between sniffles.  I am still waiting to see San Francisco with you.  Only I cannot bear to let you go so far away all at once and for so long - I did not like our separation last year and you looked so pale and rundown.  Oh, it is partly my fault – perhaps I can follow you this year, perhaps an exchange program in America?  Or if you are needed elsewhere...

No need for such drastic measures, said he, gently.  We should extend our holiday a little.  Would you like to return to America with me until Michaelmas?  You will have to tolerate my working a little but I know Bingley will be happy to see you.

Miss Bingley will be happier, I think, but Georgiana smiled as she said it.  I am more concerned over the frivolous flying.  The papers last year, Fitzwilliam… 

I will secure our carbon indulgences from the Archbishop, he promised solemnly.  Georgiana shook her head, still smiling.

**_S_ _ome Notes_ **

Acute  _streptococchal pharyngitis_ : strep throat

FT, the pink paper:  _Financial Times_

Jamie Oliver: The Naked Chef operates a restaurant, Fifteen, at Watergate Bay, Newquay, Cornwall.  I leave to the reader to determine what Darcy considers an accessible distance.

Marianne only slips and falls but there was no mention of a mountain.  Perhaps Georgiana saw an Andrew Davies adaptation.

pilchards: sardines over a certain length

grey mullet: cooked in wine and lemons, a Cornish specialty

Cox's pippins: Cox's Orange Pippin, a favorite dessert apple.

_parlo italiano_ : intentionally conjugated incorrectly.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**July**

I think I've made a mistake, Darcy, said Charles, staring at his foaming Guinness with little recognition and even less appreciation.  I shouldn't have listened to you about Jane.  His gaze was still open and clear, no signs of drink being responsible for loosening the younger man's tongue.  Darcy felt all at sea, feeling the changes but seeing no physical signs of them.  First Georgiana and now Charles. 

Louisa and Georgiana were watching a film.  The Hursts did not have children and had never particularly minded, nevertheless Darcy thought that Louisa liked to practice.

No, said he at last, you should not have.  I am sorry, Bingley.  I never did understand Miss Bennet.  I think I let my abhorrence of the mother color my perceptions of the daughter.

Charles's lips twitched.  It's a common mistake.  I should not have asked you in the first place.  You have had even less experience than I do at attaching yourself to someone.

Then we are both secure in our respective folly, said Darcy dryly.  Can you forgive me, Bingley?

Yes, of course.  I  _have_ given you many reasons to worry.  Why would you have thought differently?  Louisa laughed, followed by Georgiana, at the prompting of prerecorded reactions.  They both turned to listen.  I expect she'll never want anything to do with me again, said Bingley at length.  I'll be lucky if she'll claim me as a common and indifferent acquaintance in a decade's time.

Jane Bennet is a singular woman.  All of the sisters were, though it was not safe to say  _that_ without inviting enquiry.  She may be induced to forgive you after a suitable display of contrition.  It will be lengthy, humbling and I expect to be burnt in effigy.

Charles choked on his pint.  You would teach me to hope again, Darcy.  I cannot listen to you.  His laughter sounded pained.

You will try again?

I do not expect her to forgive me.

You will not know otherwise, Bingley, said he very gently.  It was not hypocritical; she had made her feelings quite clear.  I - well, I think I had better not venture any more advice.

I do not know how to forgive myself, Darcy.

Fitzwilliam put his hand on Bingley's shoulder.  He had not thought that they would be facing the same dilemma.

 

 

 

The Bingleys’ summer house was blue and its indifferent turrets seemed in perpetual conflict over their aspirations to be castle or an archipelago of lighthouses.   


Their father had, on a visit to a rival chemical plant, admired the private island so much that five had been purchased before his passing ceased the attempt on a sixth.  They were fine investments but continued prosperity had gradually denigrated the community as a place of suitably fashionable leisure.  The architecture was undistinguished and the houses too close together.  It was too  _hot_  in the summer and not warm enough in the winter.  No one understood why old Mr Bingley had chosen  _such_ a house in such a place when there were four other choices were so near at hand.

Caroline continually advocated a move to the Vineyard or even to the Continent, but Louisa had dissented.  Hurst and Bingley had found unexpected companionship in their sampling of regional pulled dishes and it seemed that domestic harmony and along with a suitable collection of other unspecified virtues prompted the sisters into rare disagreement.

Bingley had said little but looked a little reassured when Hurst named their favorite eating spot in happy anticipation.  Fitzwilliam wondered at their surroundings, listening for signs of man in such a crowded cluster of houses but found none.

Georgiana made friends quickly with the family next-door.  The frizzy-haired twins worshipped English accents and trailed after their new neighbors in fascinated adoration.  They blushed and hid when Darcy appeared but Georgiana was of a suitable age and temperament as to encourage their attention.  One of them was especially enamoured of exchanging her own gently rolling cadences for theirs, but her efforts led her as far astray as Scotland and Georgiana often bit her lips to stifle her laughter.  The family was cheerfully benign and Georgiana glowed with sun and something else under the indulgent attentions of the parents.  Darcy watched with curiosity – he remembered the affection that their parents had for their family, but Georgiana could not and startled when unexpected familiarity trespassed upon her notions of propriety.    


Lady Anne had not been given to sentiment, but even then she had been quite unusual in an exceptionally  _cordial_  family.  Their father had grown less demonstrative with the loss of his wife and thence even more with age.  Fitzwilliam had always accepted it as natural, yet now he thought that it might well be ossifying reticence.  He did not wish to become another specimen but did not know how to change course. 

Nothing fits as it ought to, said she, I cannot make you out at all.  He had directed his anger at Wickham but was now forced to shift some of the blame onto himself.  He wondered for almost the first time how others had perceived him, then wondered at the unexpected novelty of such self-examination.

The sun had sunk low enough to blind him.  The pound sterling continued its ascent against the dollar and he anticipated no surprises in the listless afternoon trading. It was fully dark in London and the Japanese market would not open for hours.  Caro was careful not to interrupt him but she had come in earlier looking for Georgiana. For afternoon tea, said she.  Darcy looked out – his turret had a magnificent view of the ocean – but saw only the twins making sand castles. 

Louisa fancied herself something of a chef and had after little coaxing made today’s lemon confection. Likely his sister had gone out walking, but she should have her bit of cake.  Darcy wandered downstairs to the kitchen with the vague idea of a picnic.

A half-hour later Darcy found himself wading through water as high as his waist, picnic basket overhead whilst feeling his way forward on carefully placed sand bags.  A slate blue house perched precariously overhead, support beams crumbling under the constant wind and salt.  Barrier islands were not meant to hold fast for property considerations and this owner had lost the gamble.  He could make out scattered machinery dedicated to shifting houses inland but knew that such efforts were only temporary.

After Cornwall, the water here was almost uncomfortably warm.  Darcy extricated himself from the blue-green ocean soon after passing the cliff, strands of kelp clinging to his ankles.  He saw the indifferent sign marking a bird sanctuary and knew that he was almost to the head of the island now.  He nodded to a young boy casting nets for bait and continued onward, sand crabs scurrying to hide in his wake.

Some distance away, separated from the island by swirling tides, Georgiana lay asleep on a spot of sand.  It was not yet high tide and already the water splashed at her toes, threatening to carry off her sun-tan lotion. 

Fitzwilliam jumped in immediately.  Georgiana slept placidly and deeply and no one should drown even in such pleasant surroundings.  The water was deep in unexpected places and he had to tread water past several incipient whirlpools.  Somewhere near, a fish jumped out of the water, followed by another and then yet another.

Their splashing must have woken her.  Georgiana sat up quickly, rubbing her eyes.  Her book bounced off her leg and almost fell into the water.  She snatched it up again with a cry of dismay, wiping it with her hand and then her towel.

Darcy swam the rest of the way, feeling silly when his feet hit bottom occasionally, but reached her soon enough.  I have brought your tea, said he when he was close.  There will be plenty even after you have fed the birds.

Oh, oh, she muttered, still distressed.  I did not realize it was so late.  Has the tide come in already?

Not yet, he answered, come back and eat some of Louisa’s cake.  Is your bag water proof?

 

 

 

Darcy found himself holding a bag overhead yet again, this time treading man-height water while his sister watched anxiously from shallower depths. Georgiana snatched it from his fingers when he was near and ran ashore to set it safely away from the encroaching tide.  He watched, puzzled at her urgency, but decided that he wanted cake more than he did answers.

They set out tea things and solemnly passed each other cake and bread and butter.  The darjeeling had steeped for too long and Georgiana made faces at the iced substitute.  It unlike the darjeeling however was easily ameliorated with water and they drank to each other’s health and glucose levels in tall hand-blown glasses.  Behind them, the piping plovers whistled like so many bells on the wind, counterpoint to the clinking of silver on bone china.

I do not think I put on enough sun-tan lotion, said Georgiana, staring mournfully at her summer freckles.  I feel like a tomato ready to burst.  Am I very red? 

A little, replied he, but it is merely the sun and not heatstroke, I think.  You do not  _look_  like a tomato.  I shall suggest to Caroline that we should have some at dinner, for sake of comparison.

I would rather have more cake, said she, sweetly.  He grimaced, then handed the last piece to her obediently.   


They had probably spoiled their dinners, but the Bingleys kept late hours and it was more than enough exercise returning to the house that Darcy was not worried.  He drowsed, eyes closed in the sunshine, thinking resolutely of nothing and failing.

Who is Elizabeth, Fitzwilliam? 

Darcy did not open his eyes immediately.  His hands were buried in enough sand to hide the sudden tension and he could always hope that it was a coincidence.  Elizabeth? 

We were at that chain Italian place.  You remember, on the road with the funny military name?  The Hursts treated me to luncheon when  _you_  went home to ring Reynolds.  Well anyway, Charles said something about how someone named Jane would have liked the desserts; he was about to say something about an Elizabeth but then Caro shushed him like it was a great secret.  Louisa seemed to know what it was about too but she would not say anything.  Is it such a very great secret, Fitzwilliam?  Did Charles meet someone?

He was silent for a very long time, alarmed instincts warring against each other.  He would not, would not say it aloud.  He did not think that he  _could_  even if he had wished to be honest.  Darcy did not want to think of her but endured it anyway, but it would become unbearable if he had to speak of her as well.  He did meet someone, he said, very slowly, but it is Bingley's story if you wish to hear it. 

It must have been cowardice.  Georgiana would never ask and he knew Caroline would not tolerate talk of Janes or Elizabeths.  It was a temporary reprieve, but as with San Francisco he hoped to be steady when the subject was next raised.

Oh, said she very reluctantly, running her fingers along the ring-bound spine of her book.  It’s all very puzzling.

I did not remember this book from our library, said he after several uncomfortable bites of cake.  It was as much desperation as it was genuine curiosity.  Is that from the Strand?  Has your love of old books finally expanded to Milton?

You and your Johns, cried she, then blushed at her own blunder.  No, no, these are much much better.  They’re…oh…she hugged the slender volume to herself.  They’re mother’s diaries.

He could not hear the plovers nor the water anymore, so loud was the ringing in his ears.  Darcy felt sure that his face was the color of her tomatoes as Georgiana wiped his trembling hand clean and then set the book in it.

It was an ordinary volume bound in cardboard.  The cover of this one was printed in fading hyacinths.  Anne Darcy _anno domini_ …. Then his sister produced yet another one, this one covered in violent paisley prints and Darcy recognized the unsteady copperplate inscribing the year of Georgiana’s birth.

His eyes felt wet and Darcy thought that it was likely not from the sand in the ever-present wind.   Where  _did_  you findthese?

Georgiana smiled brilliantly.  He had never seen her smile like that and wished that she would continue forever.  I found a box in the cottage when I was cleaning.  There were some of mother’s clothes and her diaries and some letters that I have not yet opened.  Oh, her wedding dress was in it!  Would you think me very sentimental if I wore it?  I am too young to think of weddings but I should like her with me if I have one eventually.  Fitzwilliam?  What is the matter?  Are you unwell?  Have I upset you?

Belatedly he realized that his vision had been blurred for sometime, leaking water down his face.  He had not cried in so long that this rare occurrence was rather alarming for he did not know how to stop.  He also did not know what to do about his sister, who sat there looking so alarmed and guilty.

I am well, said he helplessly, it’s only…he smoothed a hand over her name.  I have never seen these before.  I did not know our mother wrote diaries.

She looked so very relieved at his admission.  It must have been our father who hid them, said she carefully.  Here is the note, your mother’s things.  Look how his handwriting resembles yours.  I had thought that it was another one of your beautiful presents.

Darcy traced Lady Anne’s name again and thought of the German Steinway at home.  Unfortunately not.  Did you…he exhaled, only these four?

My favourites.  She produced another one, then another one.  No, that one was a biography of Nijinska, then there was yet another one from her bottomless beach-bag.  There were thirty-four volumes in the cottage.  The remaining ones are in the strong box at the bank.  When you did not mention them I thought that I had spoilt a surprise meant for later.  Do you wish to read them?

His arms trembled violently as he gathered her and the precious volumes into an embrace.   He could not imagine how he had hoped that it was Milton.  Yes,  _yes_ , darling girl, a thousand times.

I have marked my favorites in these, she gestured, sniffling more than a little herself when he let her go.  He opened the one with Paddington Bear to an entry on their Aunt Catherine’s suitor, then few pages later a mishap involving gelati and the Japanese ambassador.  I will make copies for both of us when we go home.  Will that be all right for you?

Perfect, he managed to say, turning the page to yet another note and an entry about their father.

You may thank me by carrying me over the water.  I cannot swim as well as you do and look how high the tide is now.

I had thought to ply you with adoration and apples enough for a lifetime, said he.

Ah, Georgiana laughed, but you do that already.

 

 

 

 

There were no lights on the island once everyone had gone to bed.  Darcy was left to his own pursuits, surrounded by books and newspapers and coffee.  The others had long bidden him languorous well-wishes, drowsing in satisfaction over the excellent dinner and the progression of days.  It was not yet late when he closed the volume bound in Moroccan leather and knew he could not read any more this night. He stepped into the wind, thinking to submerge his feverish thoughts in the dark.   


Georgiana had taken back the paisley-covered volume after dinner.  You will start at the beginning and begrudge the blanks if you read ahead, said she, I know your habits.

Darcy had wanted it near, but he could not read her account of that horrible year, not yet.  He remembered their mother in almost constant pain, confined to bed with only he and the occasional visitor for diversion.  Georgiana kicked only feebly and he had thought her a butterfly in an unnecessarily large cocoon.  Their families had not realised the danger and put off visits, unsettled by the demands of travel, until the telegram came for a funeral.

He set a balcony light as beacon, then stepped down the plank stairs until his feet were on less steady grounds.  It was a lovely night for a walk but he did not wish to stumble about, lost in the darkness.  Darcy had a vision of sleeping in the warm sand, carried away unaware by the whelming waters for a sprite to claim as her own.

The sky was not fully dark, lit brown from haloes of light from nearby islands and towns and perhaps even Georgiana’s Italian eatery.  Darcy focused on putting one foot in front of the other in the pursuit of nothing save more sand and more steps in front of him.

When he was small Darcy thought one could achieve happiness by marrying a girl named Anne.  Adolescence and acquaintance with the fondest wishes of others replaced that illusion with inchoate ideas of compatibility, of engagement of all the components of one with another.  He had finally found the woman but it seemed that he did not know how to act with one.  Fitzwilliam had found himself engaged, wished himself to be in that state, but the lady did not consider herself similarly entangled.  She had named it  _mistaken_  attraction.

She had reacted to him with such intensity that it had bewildered even her on occasion.  Fitzwilliam remembered Miss Lucas's clear grey glances and thought that  _dislike_  could not have been as apparent as the lady had believed.  Her first impressions did not permit forgiveness and he had not known otherwise.

Fitzwilliam did not remember now what had been said to draw her ire. He did not fall to pieces nor did he remember much of those first days away from Georgiana.  Bingley had been insufferably cheerful and Caroline had fixed upon him for matrimony.  He had thought his resentment under good regulation.  Later his own admiration had not been as concealed as he had thought nor, later, as apparent as he had assumed.

They had both suffered from more self-delusion than was wise.    


Darcy readily admitted to inexperience.  His heart was guarded against all but his family, and for many years he had counted only his sister and, at a distance, Fitzwilliam among its members.  When the attraction was new he had thought it uncharacteristic and difficult enough to speak of, and as it turned to implacable regard he had not known what to do.  Then in an instant it was over, all of the obstacles finally visible and he could only think on the extent of his blunders.

Georgiana was watching another film when he returned, eyelids drooping but still intent on Cecil’s bewilderment.  He sat beside her and tried to be content.    


 

 

**Some Notes**

The chemical plant: Dupont owns one such place near Fayetteville, North Carolina  


private island: Figure 8 Island, a private community off of the coast of North Carolina, where there indeed seemed to be a preponderance of turrets and other feudal features on beach houses.

regional pulled dishes: eastern North Carolina barbecue is a pulled pork dish, liberally seasoned with vinegar and peppers.

piping plovers: A sparrow-sized, sand-colored shorebird found on the North American east coast.  There are several threatened breeding populations in North Carolina, including at the head of said island.

chain Italian place: There is a terribly atmospheric one on Military Cutoff Road.

The Strand: a used bookstore in New York City, famed for its eighteen miles of bookshelves.

German Steinway: There are two Steinway makers, in New York and Hamburg.  Hamburg Steinways in my experience have more clarity and are more responsive immediately when struck.  For another comparison listen to [Emanual Ax's assessment for the  _New York Times_](http://www.nytimes.com/packages/html/nyregion/20030823_PIANO04/).

Cecil:  _Room with a View_


	5. Chapter 5

**August**

London was hot and humid, as always. 

Georgiana emerged from Heathrow and sneezed promptly at the clash of exhaust and humanity.  Darcy felt no better but schooled his face to stillness, wishing for quiet. 

In short order they turned on their phones and found the hideous Range Rover as the SMS had instructed. Georgiana exclaimed over the machine to their cousin’s astonishment, then embraced him to her brother’s.

My changeling girl has browned, exclaimed Fitzwilliam, exchanging glances with Darcy as they stacked luggage to his satisfaction.  I did not know that you went on safari; is that smoke from Bingley’s cooking fire?

Last week I was a tomato, replied she, sneezing again. These food metaphors make me think conspiracy, or dinner.  Shall we go home?

 

 

 

Fitzwilliam stayed for takeaway curry and pudding, devoting most of it to the observation of Georgiana.  She did not notice, answering in decreasingly monotone as her face swayed ever closer to an unfamiliar vindaloo.  She insisted that she was not so tired, that Fitzwilliam visiting was a delight that she could not bear to miss, but finally succumbed after coffee to the dental charms of Tom Baker, her head pillowed on her cousin’s leg.

She will not be so cross when I return tomorrow, remarked he, letting the misadventure play on to cover the noise.  There is such difference in our girl.  You have wrought miracles, or is it Annesley?

I was inconsequential in the proceedings, returned Darcy.  Perhaps the good doctor, but mostly Georgiana herself.  She was already changed when we met again.  It is as if she… Darcy hesitated, everything rebelling against such a confidence.  There has never been much likeness, yet I see my mother and wonder if I am going mad.

Aren’t you?

I am not so changed in essentials, replied he, placing a hand on her foot when Georgiana shifted.  Yet Fitzwilliam gave him such a steady  _look_  that he wondered.  I do not know how to act.  My thoughts are circles.

Fitzwilliam gave a little explosion of laughter.  I remember my father asking why aunt had chosen a Darcy, said he, stroking Georgiana’s hair.  Good sort of chap, he used to say, damned fine shot when he remembers to aim.  But the lot of them, addled by the luxury of thinking.  What would you want with a man who comes round to look at you instead of proposing?

He had not heard this story.  Darcy fixed his eyes on the parade of lighting crew names on screen and wondered how much of the lesson he could safely ignore.  And my mother?

I shall propose myself, she said.  A man can think only so many thoughts before he drowns in them.   She is your Georgiana, Darcy, let that be your guide.

 

 

 

Fitzwilliam meant to stay for the picnic at Pemberley and talked of ringing for a room in town before Darcy ordered him to his usual attic corner and the arrangement of the sack-races.  Somehow it was settled that he and Georgiana would follow on the train while Darcy found himself driving to Pemberley the next day.

You have had her for months, said he after coaxing the subject of conversation to retire, I should like to gaze my fill before my next deployment.

Darcy protested that his removal was unnecessary but his cousin was undeterred.  Few things did when Fitzwilliam felt himself in the right. 

I am sure that your esteemed doctor has cautioned against thinking her cured. She is easy with you, Darcy, but she has only recently learned to be comfortable by herself, never mind with the rest of society pressing against her affairs.  Let her alone a little; let her take the train if she wishes.  Do not revert to bad habits. 

He was sure his countenance was unchanged, but all the same Fitzwilliam smiled depreciatingly. I do not have any bad habits with regards to her, only expensive ones.  Would she like sheet music for the new piano, do you think?

 

 

 

The mystery of what constituted proper habits toward Georgiana occupied his thoughts past Luton.  Then – he wasn’t sure what had happened to  _then_ , but suddenly he had reached the inevitable congestion in front of Sudbury Hall and the sun was in his eyes.

This was, presumably, the state of insensate misery that he had sought in April.  Upon reflection, Darcy thought it more akin to hypnosis by foliage and resolved to guard against such blatant escapism.  He was no closer to certainty regarding his sister and the traffic mocked him at fifteen kilometres per hour.

Neither of them knew how to act at their last encounter.  He spoke hurried words, not wanting to look at the dear face, hollow-eyed and pale from crying.  The letter was offered and she reached for it unsteadily, touching fingers for bare moments as it changed hands.  He met her startled gaze with his own and pressed his lips together, lest he offered the remnants of his dignity to her.

Neither of them knew how to leave, even in the haste to quit each other’s presence.  

She was still standing in the clearing as he removed himself to Rosings and thence to the airport under Fitzwilliam’s direction.  His letter would only add to her distress, but Darcy winced when he thought that she would refuse to read it.  But the decision was not his – she must do whatever she decided was best.  Hecould only support her decision and advance it as his own, even if it demanded his absence.

Give me time, Georgiana had asked, after Ramsgate. For my sake, brother.

A mingling of concerns, said he, very softly to himself.  Darcy decided that he would not tell Fitzwilliam of his realisation.  His cousin will almost certainly know, but he could with very little effort ignore the  _looking_.  Very well then.

 

 

The turn to Pemberley was soon in sight.  Here and there were preparations for the picnic, coordinators gesturing while the workmen busily assembled tents and amusements under the indifferent sunshine.  His grandmother had begun it as an amusement for the local children and he had continued the tradition, one that English Heritage assiduously competed against.  Darcy suspected that they were casting for the Japanese tourists that the picnics inexplicably brought in, but it was not a question upon which he devoted much consideration.

Mrs Reynolds greeted him at the carriage house.  They settled upon dinner and then the master gardener assaulted him with grievances against childish hands.  It was an annual ritual and Darcy thought his an adequate performance.  

Then they rounded a corner and she was there.

Her companions were arranged on the steps with their backs to him, but instead of pressing down the shutter she lowered her camera, startled at his sudden appearance.  They could only look at each other.

Darcy noticed anew the little things, from the tremor in her fingers to the lingering sweetness of her perfume.  Everything was as he had remembered, as familiar and beloved as Pemberley itself.

Anything can be born without expression if one just breathed slowly and evenly, but all that was forgotten as he gazed upon her face and then could not stop, astounded at her impossible closeness.  How he looked then he could not guess.

'Miss Bennet.'

'Mr Darcy.'

  

_fin_

  
5 December 2008  
18 April 2010

 

 

**_Some Notes_ **

Anything can be borne...: borrowed from duj, who writes in another fandom

The ending salutation was unknowingly borrowed from the author of 'Assertion and Retreat'. 

 


End file.
